Counting Stars and Passing Cars
by greenschist
Summary: In which the path toward love forks and forks again. Fourteen relationships, fourteen stories. 14/14 - Draco/Hermione: Raise your glass and have a toast to the choices we made.
1. Near to You: DracoHermione

A/N: This collection is for the **Make an Album Into a Story** competition on the HPFC forum. My album is A Fine Frenzy's _One Cell in the Sea_, and each fic is inspired by the title, lyrics, or mood evoked by a track. For an extra challenge, I've decided to include Draco and/or Hermione—not necessarily paired with each other—in each entry.

* * *

counting stars and passing cars 01/14

Draco/Hermione, previous Ron/Hermione

Inspiration: "Near to You"

* * *

It is still startling to wake up and see a blond head on the pillow beside hers instead of a red one.

After that first gasp, she always burrows against him, warming her nose on the smooth, pale—not freckled—skin between his shoulder blades. Her arm slips around his waist, hand resting in the hollow of his belly. Under the covers, she tucks her feet under his and wishes she could sink right through his skin so they could stay like this.

It is only in these dim, early morning hours, when her subconscious flexes its muscles and dominates her brain, that Draco is weighed against another man.

Blond, not red like _him_.

Pale, not freckled.

Cologne, soap, and something uniquely Draco that curls her toes, not the sunshine-and-chocolate-frog scent that clung to one she loved first.

She stirs against his back until she can slip one leg between his knees. She feels first guilty then silly for treating her half-asleep musings as if they were adulterous. She hugs Draco tightly. She loves him.

It's just that she fell in love with _him_—Ron, her Ex, the Ginger-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-or-Draco-Will-Lose-It—when she was thirteen. There was no one else for her after that, not for the next decade. Falling in love with Ron had been inevitable, so falling out of love with him was torture, a bad habit so ingrained, the breaking of it broke her heart.

She does not miss him or want him back. Ron is almost a friend now, someone she can chat with at her godson's birthday party before going home to her husband. She does not miss the arguments that grew less playful as they grew up or the long nights in their flat when every conversation swung back and forth between tension and boredom. The days of playing his substitute mum are long over, as is being made to feel like a shrew every time she complained. She's certain her mind is not resurrecting the ghost of their relationship because she wishes she could have kept them from falling apart; she remembers Ron because she's looking for a way to come to terms with their absolute failure.

She's happier— stronger—with Draco, and part of her marvels that she ended up here in a marriage of equals. The hand she has draped over his stomach moves up to cover his heart, and her lips brush against the hard ridges of his vertebrae when she kisses along his spine. He shifts in her arms, and she adjusts her position until he can roll onto his back.

When he kicks restlessly, she whispers his name, reaching up to smooth his brow. He settles, his hand rising to pull hers back against his chest.

"You a'right?" he slurs.

He is already losing his grip on the edge of wakefulness and sinking again toward sleep, but she considers her words, wondering how to express her thoughts. It doesn't matter, she decides. "I'm better. With you."

"Hmm?" His only movement was the inquiring quirk of an eyebrow.

"Nothing. I love you." She kisses the corner of his mouth, and he sighs in his sleep.

* * *

_Near to you, I am healing  
__But it's taking so long  
_'_Cause, though he's gone  
__And you are wonderful,  
__It's hard to move on  
__Yet, I'm better near to you_

_-Near to You  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	2. Come On, Come Out: Hermione

counting stars and passing cars 02/14

Hermione

Inspiration: "Come On, Come Out"

* * *

Time moves too fast; she has too much to do.

The laundry on the line is ready to take in. Ron will be home soon, so she should get dinner on.

There are bills to pay and reports to read before Monday morning.

She should get up—there's no time for laying around—but she stays where she is, on a blanket under their old oak. Hugo makes motor noises as he runs his toy cars up her legs; Rosie chatters, deep in her make-believe games.

For now, Hermione plays with her children and tries to make time slow down.

* * *

_Stopping the time  
__Rushing, waiting  
__Leave it behind  
__Shifting and shaping  
__Keep it inside  
__It all goes it all goes it all goes by_

_Come On, Come Out  
A Fine Frenzy_


	3. Lifesize: DracoRose

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 03/14

Draco/Rose

Inspiration: Lifesize

* * *

He knows what other people think of them, what they say.

He is her youthful rebellion, her sugar daddy, her greatest mistake. She is his mid-life crisis, his wicked indulgence, positive proof that he has lost his mind.

Other people don't know a thing.

They don't know how he found in her a soul mate, after a lifetime of searching. They know nothing of her depth, her maturity, her wisdom. They've never heard them talk long into the night or seen how she smiles when she opens her eyes in the morning and catches him staring.

Let others talk, let their scorn rain down.

Draco knows the softness of her skin, the vibrant beauty of her curls as they twine around his fingers like a living thing. He alone is given the gift of her voice crying his name into the dark, of her body welcoming his, of the balm of her love. It staggers him, that the endless wonder that is Rose is his and his alone. He knows he will spend the rest of his life trying to live up to the faith she has in him.

Let others say what they want. He will not hear them.

* * *

_All for love, we become  
__Larger than lifesize, wondersome  
__Great in the eyes of someone  
__Larger than lifesize we become  
__Great in the eyes of someone_

_Lifesize  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	4. Borrowed Time: HermioneRon

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 04/14

Hermione/Ron

Inspiration: Borrowed Time

* * *

At 0530, she tears open the pink and white box she bought from the Muggle chemist because it can be used the first day of a late period while the Conceptus charm won't be effective for another week. Ron turns the test over in his hands, mocking "Muggle pee technology" as she reads the directions, and he laughs as she holds it between her legs, trying to aim for the skinny white stick.

Three minutes later, there are two blue lines, and they are laughing and crying and dancing in their small bathroom. He sinks to his knees before her, arms around her hips, and she closes her eyes to better remember the moment when he kisses her still-flat belly and whispers _Hello, I already love you_ against her skin.

~:~

At 0615, they have gone back to bed even though she has an early meeting with the Minister, and the Aurors have a morning training session scheduled. They are flushed and smiling as he bears her back against their dark blue sheets.

Outside, the pale fingers of dawn open the climbing roses that surround their window, and their heady fragrance creeps over the sill. She breathes deep, trembling as Ron touches her, loving the way the morning light sets his hair ablaze, and hoping she'll see the same fire in their baby.

"It'll be a girl, I just know it," he whispers into her ear, his breath shuddering as she traces a heart on the damp skin of his throat with her tongue. "One as beautiful and brilliant as you."

She blames hormones for the rush of tears to her eyes, and reaches down to guide him to her. They come together in the golden light with the scent of roses everywhere, and it's all heat and motion and gasping breath.

She vows never to forget how lucky they are.

~:~

At 0802, they are running late.

Harry's going to be angry that he's setting a bad example for the new trainees, and Hermione mustn't forget that she's keeping the Minister himself waiting.

They just can't seem to stop kissing long enough to go through the Floo.

~:~

At 1130, she sits at her desk for the first time that morning. She sips decaffeinated tea that's mostly milk and congratulates herself on another biased, pro-pureblood law struck from the books. She is proud of the work she and Ron do at the Ministry, proud to be creating a safer world for their child than the one they grew up in.

Her hand settles in her lap, covering a secret only she and Ron know. She is so happy it feels as though she should be glowing with an incendiary light, one that beams out of her every pore. It seems almost impossible that no one is noticing. She had half expected Audrey, who rode the lift with her that morning, to grab her by the shoulders and exclaim _You're pregnant, aren't you!_, but her sister-in-law had just greeted her as she normally did and inquired as to whether she and Ron would be at the Burrow for dinner on Sunday.

She smiles as she sorts through her mail, stopping when she spots Ron's familiar scrawl on a blue Auror envelope. Her assistant has time stamped it: _0827_. She breaks the seal and opens it to find one of Ron's pathetic animated doodles dancing before her eyes. A rabbit—or possibly a crup—with what is probably supposed to be a bouquet of flowers held in its teeth, jumps through a heart-shaped hoop before transforming into:

_Is it quitting time yet?_

_I miss you already._

_-R_

_P.S. These trainees are a bunch of losers._

She kisses his initial like a lovesick teenager and tucks the note into her bag, already determined to hold on to it forever as a keepsake of the day.

~:~

At 1239, she is buying a sandwich on the ground floor when she is accosted by a gaggle of reporters, Rita Skeeter at their head.

Does the Ministry have a statement about the friendly-fire incident at the Auror training grounds near Dover?

Was there any previous sign that Trainee Osburn was unstable?

What was her reaction to the news?

Has she heard from her husband or Harry Potter, both reported as involved in the incident in question?

She issues her "No comment" like an automaton, leaves her lunch on the counter, pushes past the crowd, and walks swiftly to the lift. Her knees are shaking, so she wedges herself against the corner, bracing her hands against the walls. The lift fills with stricken Ministry employees. They whisper amongst themselves—she distinctly hears the word "casualties"—and throw little looks at her to catch her expression before looking away just as fast.

She keeps her eyes on the memos flapping overhead and concentrates on her breathing. _You have every reason to be calm_, she tells herself. _Remember, Ron and Harry are experienced Aurors. They've faced Dark Lords and Death Eaters. You won't lose them (_him!_) to this._

In control of herself, she steps out of the lift and walks _(calm, calm, calm)_ toward her office at a sedate pace. Her assistant stands outside _(calm) _her door, wringing his hands, and when he spots her, he visibly starts before turning and speaking _(calm stay calm) _to someone waiting within. The Minister steps out, a look of deep concern on his dark, wide face, and reaches toward her with both hands.

She blames hormones for the fact that she starts sobbing before he even opens his mouth to speak.

~:~

She doesn't remember leaving the Ministry, couldn't say if she traveled by Floo or Apparated, but she is at St. Mungo's, running in slow motion through the halls. _Can you help me find my husband?_ she asks one person then another and they are wide-eyed and useless and if they don't take her to Ron right now she _willtearthesewallsdown _and—

"Hermione!"

Harry is there. A wicked slash defaces his cheek, and his eyebrows and fringe have been burnt away. He brushes off the healers that surround him like gnats, and she runs into his open arms. Someone is saying her husband's name over and over, a desperate ululation: ronronronronronronronronron—and it isn't until Harry grasps her face in his hands and gives her a small shake that she realizes the sound is coming from her.

"He's alive, Hermione. He's alive. They're working on him now."

She hides her face against his neck and cries.

Harry reeks of scorched flesh and grief. "We were practicing standard evasive maneuvers, and Osburn just…cracked. He started screaming, started firing curses at the other trainees." Harry swallows hard, his voice crackling with stress. "He killed Gentry right off, and Beauchamp died en route here. Kuzminski's leg was severed above the knee; I—I need to check on her."

She squeezes her eyes shut, not wanting to imagine the horror of the scene. _Oh, Ron._

"Ron saved us. Put himself between Osburn and the rest of us, took him out before he could hurt anyone else, but his last curse…it hit Ron dead on." He pulls her back to look into her eyes. "He's a hero, Hermione. He'll get the Order of Merlin for this, for sure."

A hero. She hides her face against Harry again. As if she cares about heroes and medals.

She'd give anything to be back in their golden room between rose-scented sheets again. Already it feels so far away, it hurts to remember it.

~:~

They wait, hour after hour, outside his room.

She sits beside Ginny, her head on her shoulder. Ginny's Quidditch-roughened hand strokes her hair again and again. She concentrates on her breathing and tries not to be afraid.

Harry cradles his son in his arms and walks up and down the hall, swaying slightly to keep him happy. Ginny's eyes follow them with obsessive intensity.

She knows how her sister-in-law—with a babe-in-arms and another on the way—feels. She watched Ginny race to Harry's side and weep over his injuries. She listened as Harry made empty promises that such a thing would never happen again.

He can't guarantee that. She remembers her arrogance from the morning and is ashamed; the world is no safer than it has ever been. She is proud of her husband, but she now hates his job. Better he work with George full time or…or sweep streets than be an Auror. Could she be so selfish, to ever ask Ron to give up his dream so she won't have to be this afraid?

Harry shifts James in his arms, a grimace of pain twisting his features, and she feels Ginny freeze. Her hand stops its soothing, petting motion, clenching a fistful of hair instead, and she doesn't let go until Harry relaxes and starts walking again.

_Oh, yes, _she tells herself. She _could_ ask that of Ron.

But she knows she shouldn't.

~:~

At 2241, Ron opens his eyes.

She is by his side, speaking to him softly, noting every twitch, every grimace, every sign of life. New skin, almost plastic-looking in its featureless paleness, covers his arms and chest. She mourns the loss of every freckle, wondering how many of them she failed to kiss.

His gaze wanders around the room in confusion before it lands on her. "Hey."

There are a thousand things she wants to say to him from the obvious _I love you_ to the impossible _Promise me you'll never leave us!_ but all she says in return is "Hey, yourself."

He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales loudly through his nose. "Harry?"

"He's fine," she says, understanding his unspoken question. "You stopped Osburn. You're a hero."

He grunts. An abortive movement follows, where he tries to reach for her or turn on his side, but his face twists in a rictus of agony. "_Merlin, _that hurts!"

She hovers over him, unsure how to help. "I'll get someone to give you something."

"No." His voice stops her as she turns toward the door. "Just come closer so I can touch you."

She sits on the edge of the bed and carefully takes his hand in hers. The backs of their entwined fingers brush against her belly, and she feels like crying again.

"Better." He smiles a little and closes his eyes again. "Don't be scared. I always come back to you, don't I?"

Her heart breaks a little. "I know you do." She watches him fall back into a troubled half-sleep. Holding her body on the edge of the bed, she eases down until she is lying beside him, not touching, but sharing his pillow and so close that the rise and fall of his chest fills her sight.

"'My-nee?" he mutters, and she whispers, "I'm here."

"You smell like roses. S'nice."

She counts his breaths and vows never to forget this moment.

* * *

_Step, step right over the line  
__And onto borrowed time  
__When it's life, not waiting to die  
__Waiting to divide to divide_

_Borrowed Time  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	5. Liar, Liar: Draco

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 05/14

Draco

Inspiration: Liar, Liar

* * *

As a Pureblood, he is naturally superior to Muggles and their kin and entitled to special treatment.

All lies, he knows now, but lies so sweet, what child couldn't help but swallow them whole? Such lies made it easier to belittle Muggle-born accomplishments than choke down the truth.

It wasn't until the War that the lies his parents told him became such bitter little pills.

If he raises Scorpius on a diet of truths, his son will be unable to stomach a lie. At least, this is what Draco tells himself; whether it is true or not, he couldn't say.

* * *

_The sirens sang so sweet and watched the sailors go down  
__Oh, oh, you talk to me in siren song  
__Yeah, anyone would drown  
__Anyone would drown_

_Liar, Liar  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	6. Think of You: DracoHarry

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 06/14

Draco/Harry

Inspiration: Think of You

* * *

I saw you in Diagon Alley. You didn't see me _(and it hurt even though I was grateful)_.

If you looked at me, it would probably be with disdain _(and I'm as afraid as I've always been that everything I feel for you is written on my face)_.

You were pushing a pram, your red-haired wife beside you _(and I wanted to be there in her place)_.

She leaned her head against your arm, and you smiled _(and I know that smile will never be mine)_.

From behind, I saw the crowds clear a path before you, all but bowing as they got out of your way _(and I would throw myself under your feet if I had the right)_.

You didn't seem to notice. Your attention was on the family you made _(and jealousy hobbles me like a stone in my shoe)_.

I hear you bought them a home by the sea _(and it's somewhere I'll never go, somewhere I'll never belong)_.

You wouldn't care, but I'm still in Wiltshire with a wife of my own _(and she doesn't know what I dream in our bed at night)_.

I have a good life _(but I still think of you)_.

* * *

_I thought I had it figured out in a brand new life  
__With a great big house  
__And green initials on the towels  
__I should be happy now  
__Well, you got yourself a family  
__And you planted roots down by the sea  
__I saw you once on the street  
__You didn't notice me_

_Think of You  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	7. Hope for the Hopeless: DracoAsteria

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 7/14

Draco/Asteria

Inspiration: Hope for the Hopeless

* * *

She is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

Draco learns about Winston Churchill in the pro-Muggle re-education classes he is required to attend bi-weekly, and though he knows the jowly Muggle was speaking of Russia, he thinks the quote suits Asteria Greengrass just as well.

The ways she confuses him are exhaustive and ever expanding. Why does she live in a cramped flat with two roommates when her family could buy her something better? Why does she choose work for the Ministry in an airless cupboard full of dusty historical scrolls when her sister chooses not to work at all? Why did she first reject and ignore him only to approach him herself when he slipped away from a deadly dull Ministry fundraiser to read _Muggle Wars of the 20__th__ Century_ in peace?

He turns her over in his mind, a puzzle he can't quite solve, while he lies awake at night watching moonlight shine through his window. She is not the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance. Her fine, light brown hair and calm brown eyes are easily overlooked. Her mouth is too small for her face and holds her secrets tight inside. She is, as Blaise and Theo remind him when he meets them for drinks on Thursdays, quite average: neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, just strange enough to be odd, not odd enough to be eccentric. _Hardly,_ Blaise drawls, _the most obvious future Mrs. Malfoy._

Draco doesn't understand it either, but she arrests him, ensnares him. Her mind, heart, and soul are a labyrinth in which he would willingly lose himself. When insomnia drives him from his bed and sends him roaming the halls of the manor, he thinks about her instead of his memories and pats himself on the back for having the wisdom to see what no one else seems to; the mystery of Asteria is his alone to solve.

He sets out to win her heart the best way he can and ignores Theo and Blaise when they laugh at him.

She flatly refuses to attend any society parties, but she is interested in his re-education homework. Together, they read his books, comparing and contrasting events in Muggle history with events in the Wizarding world while sitting on the sagging couch in her flat. He begins to understand her true passion for history, how it shapes her view of people and of the world. He earns her first, real, unguarded smile on that couch, an event that transforms her from quietly pretty to beautiful in his eyes.

Their relationship progresses in fits and starts, surrounded by reminders of wars. She holds his hand for the first time when they attend the "Animals in War" Memorial unveiling at Brook Gate on the edge of Hyde Park, but then he fails to support her as she challenges Blaise's "revisionist views" of Voldemort, and she ignores him for a week. Their first kiss is in front of the Cenotaph in Whitehall, which leads to introducing her to his parents; his father calls her a "blood traitor" and a "Ministry mouthpiece." Draco haphazardly tosses clothing and books into a bag and leaves Malfoy Manor that night.

Asteria's little mouth is a small, hard line when she opens the door to his knock, and he thinks he'll end up in a hotel, but he spends the next two nights sleepless on her couch, as a spring digs into his spine and his thoughts chase themselves around his head. She barely speaks to him, preferring to scrutinize him through shadowed eyes as he turns his mother's owls away and struggles through his homework. _I'll never understand her,_ he thinks, but on the third night, she takes his hand and leads him to her bedroom, so he must be doing something right, though he couldn't say what.

Soon, her flatmates have moved out. Draco's clothes are in the wardrobe, his books on the shelves, and he replaces the couch, gleefully shrinking the old one until it's small enough to fit in the sink and sending it to furniture hell with an _Incendio! _He applies for and wins a junior position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and is inordinately proud of his earnings, small as they may be. There's a strange satisfaction to be found in autonomy, in being responsible for putting a roof over his own head for the first time. When he mentions this newfound revelation to her, while they are touring the Imperial War Museum for the third time, she exclaims "Draco Malfoy, did you just grow up?"and kisses him in front of a tour group of giggling Japanese teenagers.

He completes his final re-education class in late spring. His teacher testifies before the Committee on Death Eater Activities and War Restitution that he is rehabilitated and, just like that, he is free. He and Asteria celebrate by going out with Theo and Blaise for drinks and darts. He is glad his love and his friends have learned to get along, somewhat. Blaise calls Asteria "a pain in the arse, but otherwise all right" which is good enough for Draco; he doesn't expect anyone else to understand her the way he does. Holding her hand under the table, listening as she bickers in good-natured fashion with Blaise, all three of them laughing as Theo tries to chat up a Muggle blonde and is shut down hard, Draco is overcome with a feeling he tentatively identifies as peace.

He starts to sleep through the night for the first time since he was fifteen.

Lucius intrudes on his peace, as unwelcome as the icy finger of winter on a summer night. Asteria finds him sitting at their small table, cat in his lap, unopened letter before him. She fusses, making him tea and kissing his brow, before leaving him to make his own decision with a whispered "Keep calm and carry on, my love." She disappears into the bedroom with a history of Gaul and shuts the door.

He breaks the wax seal, and his father's letter is depressing, but unsurprising. He leaves it behind and pads to the bedroom, the thin carpet cool under his bare feet. She looks up as he enters, a question on her face, but he just shakes his head and pulls his clothes off, letting them fall to the floor as he crawls between the sheets. He sighs rests his head on her pillow, close enough that his breath stirs her brown hair. She tucks a bookmark into her book and sets it on her green-painted bedside table.

She turns toward him, her hand raised to cradle his jaw in her palm. "The Lord of the Manor is displeased, I take it?"

"You could say that. It appears the Heir of the Manor will be disinherited if he doesn't straighten up and find someone 'more suitable.'" Her fingers cease gently stroking over his cheekbone, and he turns his head to kiss her palm. "It doesn't matter."

She bites her lip, a thousand thoughts he'll never really know behind her eyes. "How can it not matter? He's your father, and you love him."

"Yeah." It _does_ hurt, and he knows some part of him will always tremble under his father's disapproval. "But you're my everything, and I love you, too. We're okay. What do a fortune and a mansion have on all of this?" He makes a vague motion meant to encompass their shabby walk-up.

She kisses him until he closes his eyes. Her fingers resume tenderly tracing his features.

"Your father will come around," she whispers, and he grunts noncommittally. "He will," she insists. "By the time we're ready to have children, all will be forgiven. I can't imagine either of your parents giving up a grandchild, even if they don't entirely approve of that child's mother. So we don't need their approval to get married; they'll get over it."

"Maybe," he mutters into the pillow, but then he hears—he _understands_—the promise of a future in her words, the unspoken _yes_ to an unasked question. He lunges to his knees in the center of the bed, and she looks up at him with her deep, dark eyes, her cupid's bow lips curled enigmatically.

"Will you marry me?" he asks, and her smile bursts forth, transforming something that was already remarkable into something beautiful right before his eyes.

* * *

_Cold in a summer breeze  
__Yeah, you're shivering  
__On your bended knee  
__Still, when your heart is sore  
__And the heavens pour  
__Like a willow bending with the storm, you'll make it_

_Hope for the Hopeless  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	8. You Picked Me: HermioneLuna

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 08/14

Hermione/Luna

Inspiration: You Picked Me

* * *

She's up to her knees in green pond water with a net held over her head, ready to catch…I don't know what. If I ask, she'll be happy to tell me, just as she's always ready to discuss Nargles or warn brunettes not to overindulge in cherries lest they attract the attention of the Horned Goozler.

My Luna is a lover of the exotic and fantastical, without a doubt. Which begs the question, what does she love about me?

If I imagine myself as an entry in one of the magical zoology books she's always reading, it's not hard to imagine what it would say:

**HERMIONE GRANGER** – Native to Britain, the Granger is easily identified

by its bushy brown plumage, plain brown eyes, and sharp, nagging call.

Often found in and around libraries and bookshops.

Not terribly interesting, but she picked me and, more and more, I want to know why. Would she be happier with someone who shares her love for her father's creatures? Who is free to travel across the globe hunting for them instead of trapped at the Ministry all day long?

Her net strikes the shining surface, and cool drops of water pepper my legs. I shift the books and parchment I brought with me to a safer distance. "Any luck?" I can't help smiling; she's frowning at her net, looking like a tennis player who blames her racket for a missed shot.

"Not yet, but it's only a matter of time." As always, she's confident.

"What are you trying to catch," I finally ask.

She perks up. "The Albino Hemscrunch. They swim up bathing suits and force them to cling awkwardly to the wearer's derriere. Daddy did an editorial on them for the last issue, just in time for swim season."

"Ah." I try not to tell Luna her creatures are imaginary. I love her, so I guess part of me actually wants her to be right.

She replants her feet and resumes her stalking pose. She's so cute, in her bikini top and cut-off jeans. Dragonflies buzz around her head, and her hair glows in the summer sun. If I were a different sort of woman, a spontaneous woman like her, I'd get off our blanket and join her in the water. I'd thread my fingers through her belt loops and tug her close enough to kiss. I'd kiss her again and again—on her sweet mouth, her round cheeks, and her pale eyelids—while minnows nibbled at our toes and the sun warmed our shoulders. It's what she would do. But I'm Hermione Granger, so I admire her from the shore where I sit, all dry and tidy, working on a legal brief to present before the Wizengamot. If I feel like getting a little wild later, I brought my knitting and a new pattern.

Honestly, sometimes I even bore myself. How can I not bore her?

I set the brief aside and pull my knees up toward my chin. "Luna?"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes we seem so very different."

She lowers the net to rest on her shoulder and blows stray strands of dark blonde hair out of her eyes. "I suppose. You never sleepwalk, for example, and you continue to eat cheeses despite the Bovine Conspiracy."

I ignore that. "Well, out of everyone you could have loved, why did you pick me?" I bite my lip, suddenly too late the adage about not asking a question unless you're sure you want the answer.

"Hmm." She spins the wooden shaft between her palms, causing the net to spin behind her head and send tiny droplets everywhere. "Beyond the obvious, you mean?"

There was something 'obvious' about us? "I'm…I'm like an apple in an orchard or a single shell on a beach with a million others." She purses her lips and I squirm inside. I don't want to talk myself down—and she hates it when I do—but simple observation tells me Luna is a collector of rare butterflies and I'm a moth. I clear my throat. "Sometimes I just wonder if you ever want someone—" _flashier, imaginative, more exciting_—"more like you."

She waves her hand dismissively. "Sometimes I wonder what you'd look like as a blonde. We could find out with a glamour."

I roll my eyes. "That's not really what I mean."

She cocks her head to the side. "Do you think I'm strange, Hermione? Loony?"

"Loony?" It's been so long since I have thought of her as Loony Lovegood. "You're not loony! You're—" I cast around for an apt description. "You're uniquely _you_, Luna: open-minded, creative, loyal, and loving. You're _always_ you, all the time and then some. It's a wonderful way to be."

She smiles. "Thank you. It's nice to be loved for who you are."

"Yes. I do..." I'm distracted by a butterfly landing on her head. "I mean, I do love you for being you."

"Well, I love you, Hermione Granger, for the brave, devoted, brilliant, and compassionate woman you are. You're a defender of house elves, a ruthless and determined litigator, and you make the best chocolate biscuits I've ever had. And you love me. How could I not pick you?"

I feel warm down to my toes, and it has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.

She tosses her net onto the bank and holds her hands out to me. "Now come dance with me."

"In the water?" But I'm already standing and toeing off my sandals. It's so easy, when she stands there with open arms waiting to hold me, to leave my inhibitions behind and be a little more carefree, just for a while.

"Of course in the water." She kicks water up into the air, her toes pointed like a ballerina. "Why not?"

The water is cool and the stones are smooth under my feet as I wade to her side. "There isn't any music."

Her hand, cool, soft, and damp, takes mine, and we're a perfect fit, palm to palm. "We make our own."

* * *

_Like an apple on a tree  
__Hiding out behind the leaves  
__I was difficult to reach  
__But you picked me  
__Like a shell upon a beach  
__Just another pretty piece  
__I was difficult to see  
__But you picked me  
__Yeah, you picked me_

_You Picked Me  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	9. The Minnow and the Trout: DracoLuna

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 09/14

Draco/Luna

Inspiration: The Minnow and the Trout

* * *

The Lovegood weirdo spins in slow circles, dancing in the rectangle of light that spills into the cellar through the open door. He watches her from the doorway, his wand at the ready in case she makes any sudden moves toward freedom.

Once a day, Draco is sent to the cellar door to make sure Ollivander is still breathing and that Lovegood hasn't brained herself trying to walk through walls or something. It's shit work…literally, since one of his duties is to verify that the waste removal charms are still working. He is _not_ told to sit there with the door open, giving the prisoners a little light and fresh air. If they—_ Him_, his aunt, the other Death Eaters who tromp through his home as if they own it—knew, Merlin knows what they would say. They already think he's weak.

They're right. He knows he can't compete with his comrades when it comes to either brutality or their dedication to the Dark Lord. He's exhausted, frightened, and dreading the day he'll come down to breakfast to find them roasting Granger on a spit and playing ten pins with Potter's head. Watching Luna Lovegood flap her arms like a bird is a pleasant distraction. He rests his head against the splintery jamb and feels calmer than he does at his parents' side.

He was warned not to talk to her, that she may try to seduce or manipulate him. The thought of her seducing anyone, with her unwashed, straggly hair and dry, cracked lips—he makes a mental note to check with the elves and make sure she has sufficient water—is laughable. But, oh yes, mixed in with her inane rambles about Burping Humperdinks, there _are_ little attempts at manipulation, attempts to point out that they are more alike than they are different and, therefore, should not be enemies. He's too much of a manipulator himself not to pick up on it.

They're both teenagers.

They both enjoy Charms, dislike Arithmancy, and consider Hagrid sub-par as a professor, although Luna "likes him as a person."

They're both devoted to their fathers.

They both eat their least favorite food on their plates first, saving the best for last.

They both wonder if Hooch and Sinistra have something going, although the thought is more titillating for Draco than for Luna.

They both hate clowns.

It's a transparent attempt to make him trust her, maybe even like her. He would pity her for the effort, if he was capable. He should stand up and bolt the door shut, leaving her in the dark again. Instead, he sits and listens.

"Do you like chocolate, Draco?" She clasps her hands behind her back and bends toward her toes until her hair hits the floor. He can see the dirty back of her neck. There's a faint rash on her exposed skin, probably caused by sleeping on straw. Perhaps he could bring a few extra blankets down, maybe a pillow…

"Everyone likes chocolate, Lovegood," he says tiredly. The last thing he needs is to be caught pampering the prisoners with the Malfoy family linens. He'd be likely to end up down here with them.

She stands up and pushes her hair back out of her face. Her arms are thinner now than they were two weeks ago. "Not Sagittarians," and she appears to be serious.

Idiocy. As if he hasn't seen his father, a Sagittarian through and through, gorge himself on hot chocolate and truffles every Yule. It's pointless to argue with her, though. "Well, I'm a Gemini, and I love it."

She smiles, and she could use a tooth cleaning charm. Another mental note.

"I love it, too. I'm an Aquarian; we're both air signs. That's probably why we're so similar."

He braces his feet on the top step. "We're not similar, Lovegood. We're the very opposite of similar."

She strikes another bird-like pose, her head cocked to one side. Her legs are as skinny as a stork's. "Do you really think so?"

"Look around, you loon! Here's the biggest difference between us." He spreads his hands to indicate the dank prison that is her home: the mildewed walls, the straw-strewn floor, Ollivander curled in a fetal position in the corner. "You're a prisoner and I'm not!"

She opens her mouth, and he's honestly curious—how can she dispute anything he's said?—but, from the drawing room, there is a loud bang followed by someone's shrieking and Bellatrix's mad cackling. His heart leaps into his throat, and instinct propels him toward safety…down the steps, into the cellar, next to her.

She's close enough to touch, close enough to make a grab for his wand although she doesn't move. This close, this he can better see the layer of grime that covers her and smell her body odor. She's always been the same loony little freak, but at least she used to be clean. It's another indignity, another crime on his head.

"Poor Draco. You think you're not a prisoner, too?" She touches him for the first time, a small pat upon his arm, and he realizes _she_ pities _him_, and if he let himself, he would cry.

* * *

_Not your everyday circumstance  
__Hummingbird taking coffee with the ants_

_Please, I know that we're different  
__We were one cell in the sea in the beginning  
__And what we're made of was all the same once  
__We're not that different after all_

_The Minnow and the Trout  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	10. Last of Days: HermioneFred

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 10/14

Fred/Hermione

Inspiration: Last of Days

* * *

The sun is just creeping over the edge of the world when Hermione Apparates to the graveyard. She takes a deep breath and moves through the Weasley headstones until she reaches the fresh patch of bare earth that belongs to Fred.

"I'm back. I was hoping we could have that talk," she says softly, sinking to her knees and reaching out to trace his name on his marker. _So young_, she thinks. _Too young and gone too soon_.

"First off, I brought you something." Opening her bag, she pulls out a worn envelope and a bright box with the distinctive Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes logo. She props the box against the stone and slowly opens the letter. The parchment is creased and worn from many readings, and she gently smoothes it with her fingers before laying it down. "I bet you know what this is, don't you? Are you surprised I kept it? You shouldn't be. A girl keeps her first love letter."

Tears blur her eyes, fragmenting the words before her. _Dear Hermione…I know you're leaving…both know what's coming, so I can't let the chance pass…know how much I care…I think I could love you. _She blinks hard, bringing the world and his words back into focus_. When this is over, maybe we could talk. I mean, if you think you could love me, too. Until then, take care of yourself out there, Granger. I'd be lost in the world without you in it. Love, Fred._

"I didn't find this until a week after Bill and Fleur's wedding. I still can't figure out when or how you snuck it into my bag." She dashes a tear from her eye. "I guess it doesn't matter now. Oh, Fred…" She hangs her head, her fingers pressed hard against the dirt. "I wish you had said something sooner. I wish we could have had some time together, a week, even a day."

She cries quietly, her shoulders shaking. A sudden breeze plays with the leaves of the trees and lays a cool finger on her brow. Around her, the tall grass and wildflowers that thrive in the graveyard rustle and bow to each other. Soon, they'll cover Fred like a patchwork quilt.

She swallows hard. "I want you to know that I read this letter a hundred times, and I thought about you and how it would be to see you again a thousand times. When I heard the sound of your voice on _Potterwatch_, I wanted to see you so bad, I thought it was going to kill me. I'd give anything for you to be here with us now.

"I don't know what would have happened if you had survived, but Ron and I—" she swallows again, "—something is happening between us. I don't know what it is, or where it's going. Maybe nowhere, but maybe somewhere good." The sun warms her cheeks, drying the tracks of her tears. "You're gone, and so I have to let go of what could have been and focus on what could still be."

She leans forward and kisses his name. "Thank you. You gave me something to dream about. I could have loved you, too, and I'll never forget you."

She tears opens the box and pulls out a bundle of fluorescent Weasleys' Wildfire Whizz-bangs. Rolling his letter into a tube, she wraps it tightly around the largest rocket.

"Goodbye, Fred," she whispers and lights the fuses with her wand.

Sitting against his monument, she watches them explode in brilliant wheels of color above her head, even brighter than the rising sun.

* * *

_The world carries on without you  
__But nothing remains the same  
__I'll be lost without you  
__Until the last of days  
__Until the last of days_

_Last of Days  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	11. Whisper: DracoMoaningMyrtle

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 11/14

Draco & Moaning Myrtle

Inspiration: Whisper

* * *

They've both been whittled down to whispers by the Dark Lord, pale shades of who they used to be.

Maybe that's why he keeps coming here, to cry with Myrtle in her watery tomb. He thinks there is a sick symmetry to their connection: past and present, female and male, Myrtle murdered by the same man who will turn Draco into either a killer or a dead man by the school year's end. It's no wonder she is easy to talk to.

A year ago, the thought that he would feel more comfortable with a ghost in a girls' loo than with Goyle and Crabbe in his own Common Room would have made him laugh. It's not funny now. He thought this would be his year for triumph and glory, for restoring his family's position, but he's _failing_ and it's all hopeless and he hasn't a chance of getting to Dumbledore and he only sees the trap the Dark Lord set for him now that he's caught in it and _it's too late_—

He sobs, bent over the sink and wishing he could purge his fear and regret and wash them away, as Myrtle coos sympathy like a ghostly dove.

* * *

_I'm down to a whisper  
__In a daydream on a hill  
__Shut down to a whisper  
__Can you hear me  
__Can you hear me still_

_Whisper  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	12. Rangers: DracoGinny

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 12/14

Draco/Ginny

Inspiration: Rangers

* * *

They burst through the doors and jog a few paces down the street before stopping so Ginny can wrap her shawl over her shoulders. _That's Weasleys: 4, Malfoy: 0_, he thinks, picturing their barely touched meals now abandoned in the restaurant behind them. _But I'm not beaten yet._

A date with Ginny is worth any trouble her brothers can throw his way.

He studies her in the light of the street lamp. She's pink with anger, her chignon is now trailing long strands of red-gold hair thanks to their hasty escape, and she has a look on her face that reminds him uncomfortably of school, stinging hexes, and bogies with batwings, but she's still beautiful. He wouldn't change a thing about her. He eyes her up and down. Well, perhaps her shoes. Her green dress and green-and-black beaded wrap are perfection, but he doesn't think much of the rather plain flats she's wearing. He'd prefer to see her in heels, showing off those muscular legs of hers.

Before he can spiral into his long-running fantasy of Ginny, clad in nothing but spike heels, with all that smooth, freckled skin his to explore, she exhales sharply and mutters, "I apologize for that."

"Hmm?" he says distractedly. "Oh, it's more Perry's fault, isn't it?"

"It's Percy, and I can't believe the nerve of him! Showing up at the restaurant and trying to sabotage our dinner?" She fists her hands on her hips. "I know my brothers aren't handling my breakup with Harry very well, but this is outrageous. You never expected anything like this when I accepted your invitation, and for that I really am sorry."

He privately thinks her brothers are more upset by the fact that her first post-Potter date is Draco Malfoy than by the breakup itself, but he just shrugs. "Think nothing of it. It's quite exciting to have someone slip a sleeping draught into your soup—good catch on that, by the way. I missed it completely, and I would have hated to spend the next day asleep."

She smiles and inclines her head in acknowledgement. "Shall we go on to the Leaky Cauldron and finish our meal there?"

"Absolutely." He offers her his arm, and when she takes it, her touch feels so perfectly _right_ that he has to clear his throat before continuing. "We shouldn't dawdle, I imagine. It won't take Perry long to unstick himself from that chair."

"Percy, and you're right. I shouldn't have suggested the Leaky where he could hear us; he just might follow us once he's free."

They set off at a brisk pace, Ginny easily matching his stride.

"My family has a way of making things difficult."

It's a bit of an understatement, but he says, "I'm no stranger to that."

She chuckles. "No, I guess we're equal in that respect."

"They've surprised me," he admitted. "It's a little bit like a hazing ritual. I mean, I never expected Bob—"

"Bill."

"—to have the Goblins freeze my account so I wouldn't have the funds to wine, dine, and impress you unless I borrowed money from my mum like a teenager, or Greg—"

"George. You're doing this on purpose." But she's laughing, so he doesn't bother to deny it.

"—to send me that exploding blue bomb. _That_ was special." He holds up his bright blue hands as evidence.

She frowns, uncomfortable. "You don't know for sure that Bill and George were responsible for those things." At his knowing look, she sighs. "All right, all right. They're guilty as sin. I'll talk to Bill, and I'll get the antidote from George, I swear." She shakes her head. "I don't know why you didn't cancel."

"Are you kidding?" He covers the hand she rests on his arm with his own, blue, one. "It took two months to get you to agree to this date. It would take more than thugs or indelible blue ink to make me cancel."

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing him to stop, too.

"There were thugs?" Her eyes search his face, looking for bruises, perhaps.

"Mmm. From the thick accents and leather clothing, my guess was Romanian dragon keepers."

"Charlie," and it's a hiss. He basks in the stream of invective pouring from her mouth. He would love to bend her over his arm and kiss her in the lamplight, but he remembers the one useful thing his uncle Rodolphus ever told him: Don't try to kiss a woman when she's in the middle of planning her bloody vengeance on someone. Rodolphus would know better than anyone, so Draco just enjoys Ginny's ire and takes her arm to get her moving again.

"I'm going to kill them," she vows. "They've forgotten who they're dealing with. By the time I'm through, they'll be so far past sorry, they won't remember what sorry looked like."

He laughs as they turn onto Diagon Alley, but the sound is suddenly strangled in his throat. _Un-figgin'-believable. _

Ron Weasley leans against a lamp post near the mouth of Diagon Alley, scanning the evening crowd and, not coincidently, blocking the path to the Leaky Cauldron.

Unaware, Ginny looks up at Draco with curiosity. "What's wrong?"

"I spy with my little eye something that is…ginger and unwelcome." He jerks his chin toward the Leaky and feels her stiffen when she spots her brother. He pulls her back behind the corner of the building. "Perry must have sent his Patronus ahead to tell him where to wait for us. They're very good at coordinating their efforts. I can see now why you won the war."

"Is fratricide always a crime?" Her teeth are clenched tight. "And, if so, is Azkaban really so bad? It might be worth it."

"Or we could save murder for our second date and avoid him tonight instead."

She raises one arched brow. "_Avoid _him?"

Clearly, this isn't a Gryffindor sort of idea. "That's right. We give him the slip, Apparating to Hogsmeade for dinner. Brother Rob spends the rest of the night loitering in Diagon Alley—"

"It's Ron, which you know, but I'm listening. Keep going."

"—never spotting us, and being the only Weasley boy who completely fails in their mission to try to ruin our night."

"Sounds frustrating," she says thoughtfully. "Let's do it!"

"Excellent." He grins at her as they both pull their wands. "Do you know Amadeo's, that little Italian place on—"

"Found you!" Ron barks as he comes around the corner, and just like that, Draco realizes the possibility of ending up in prison by midnight becomes much more likely.

"We don't want to be found!" Ginny's wand flicks and Ron lets out an audible 'ooof' as he flies into the middle of the street. She seizes Draco's hand. "Time for Plan B."

"What's Plan B," he asks, running to keep up with her as she darts down the block and cuts through the narrow gap between two buildings.

"We run for it!"

Surely Weasley will give up and leave them alone now, he thinks, just before he hears the orange buffoon yell, "Ginny!" and he's far closer than he should be.

"He's chasing us!" Draco pants. "He's actually chasing us! Is he mental?"

"You have to ask?" Ginny pants back.

They duck between buildings and squeeze through fences. Ron almost catches them behind the Bewitching Witch Beauty Salon, but Draco greases the soles of his shoes and they escape when he falls. Soon, Ginny is laughing, and Draco can't help but laugh too. It's a ridiculous farce, but looking at Ginny, with dirt now smeared on her flushed cheek and her long red hair falling out of up-do, Draco wouldn't give this night up for anything.

The two of them dash into Flourish and Blotts and end up hiding behind a stack of unauthorized biographies of Gwenog Jones. They crouch down, shoulder to shoulder and still holding hands, to try and catch their breath.

"I still can't believe our first date ended up with us running from your brother." He leans his head against the edge of the table.

"Sadly, I wish I could pretend to be surprised, but I was afraid to put anything past them." She points to her feet and grins. "Why do you think I wore these sensible shoes?"

He laughs again. "I admit it: Your family might be even better at making things difficult than mine." He peers cautiously around the book stack and is startled when she touches his chin with gentle fingers, turning his face back toward hers.

Her lips are dewy and soft against his, and he again feels the _rightness_ of her touch, the shock of it, echoing through him. _Malfoy for the win_, he thinks dazedly as she pulls away.

"Thank you for tonight, Draco. I had a really fun time, despite my brothers, but I'm sure this wasn't the night you imagined it would be.

He looks at her and sees the fierce spirit shining through her lovely eyes with their golden lashes, and he knows he'll face a gauntlet of a hundred brothers if that is what it takes to be with her. He kisses her again.

"You're worth it."

* * *

_Let's keep hiding, all quiet like  
__They'll keep seeking but they won't find us  
Let's keep living a quiet life  
You and I, you and I_

_And the rangers stream out of their cabins_  
_They are the hunters, we are the rabbits_  
_And maybe we don't wanna be found_  
_Maybe we don't want you tracking us down_

_Rangers  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	13. Almost Lover: HermioneHarry

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 13/14

Harry/Hermione

Inspiration: Almost Lover

* * *

He's happy.

It's a wonderful thing to see him with Ginny in their wedding robes, both of them laughing. The day we all knew was coming is finally here.

I'm sad. My feelings surprise me…and shame me some, too.

I love Ron. I _do_, and Harry loves Ginny. It's been this way since Hogwarts, and he and I have been best friends and quasi-siblings. I suppose part of me, though, always wondered if we would ever be something more.

Now I know.

Ron makes his toast, and I raise my glass to the happy couple with everyone else.

_Good-bye, Harry._

* * *

_Goodbye, my almost lover  
__Goodbye, my hopeless dream  
__I'm trying not to think about you  
__Can't you just let me be?  
__So long, my luckless romance  
__My back is turned on you  
__Should've known you'd bring me heartache  
__Almost lovers always do_

_Almost Lover  
__A Fine Frenzy_


	14. Ashes and Wine: DracoHermione

Disclaimer and Notes can be found in Chapter 1

* * *

Counting Stars and Passing Cars 14/14

Hermione/Draco

Inspiration: Ashes and Wine

* * *

Her bookshelves are bare.

That, more than anything else, tells Draco she's really going through with this. Her vast library is packed away in boxes, waiting to be moved to the flat where she will live with _him_, Ron Weasley, the man she is going to marry on Saturday.

For a moment, he considers burning her new home down, leaving no nest for the lovebirds, and thinks no man who has ever been in love and lost would condemn him. Instead, he opens the last bottle of wine he can find in her kitchen and sits at her table to read the binder he found in her bedroom, the one with _Wedding Planner_ written across the front in her neat handwriting. There is page after page of appointments and reminders, all checked off or annotated. He familiarizes himself with her life. Tonight, she is picking up her bridal attendants' gifts. Tomorrow, she moves into her parents' house until after the ceremony, leaving her belongings for Potter and the Weasleys to move while she's on her honeymoon.

The thought of Hermione shutting the front door for the last time and putting this place behind her forever burns through him. He tastes ashes in his throat. They were lovers here. Together, they christened every room when she moved in. He hung fairy lights around the windows for her on their first Christmas together. He served her the first food he cooked himself—runny eggs and burnt toast—at this very table after she refused to let him summon an elf from the Manor to do the cooking…and she somehow choked it down. This is where they loved, laughed, spent lazy Sundays in bed with the _Prophet, _and planned for a future together. This is where they stopped talking and started screaming, where they cried, and where it all fell apart.

After tomorrow, this place and everything that happened in it will be just a memory. He drinks directly from the bottle, sick at the thought. If she moves out, she moves on.

He takes another swig, ignoring the little voice in his mind that whispers _Just like you did_, _even though she begged you not to go._

He tells himself it's different, that he did what he had to do, that he has been shackled by duty from birth and has never had the same freedom she enjoys.

_Did you think she'd wait in this flat for you forever?_

Maybe. He certainly thought she would still love him as he loves her and that that would preclude her marrying any other man. He thought, in time, that she would change her mind, and they could be together again. And perhaps this is not such a hopeless dream, for aren't there signs that she has not forgotten him—wards that still open at the sound of his voice, his favorite red on the wine rack? Maybe they still have a chance.

There is a shuffle and scrape from the hall outside, and she opens the door, juggling bags and pushing it shut behind her with her foot. He can see the moment she realizes she is not alone, the instant when instinct freezes her in her tracks before she drops the bags and whips her wand from her sleeve. She takes a defensive stance and points the wand at his head.

He takes another drink.

"Draco?" she whispers, her wand arm slowly dropping to her side.

"Hermione. It's been a while."

"Been a—" She stalks to the table and pulls the planner out of his hands. "How dare you? Breaking and entering? Going through my things? I should have you arrested."

He shrugs. "You'd be within your rights."

She holds the planner against her chest, folding both arms across it. "I told you to never come back. Why are you here?"

"To see you one last time. To see if you were really going through with it." Nerves gnaw the edges of his wine-induced calm, and he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "To see if there's still any chance for us."

"_There is no chance!_ You're married! You left me, and you married Asteria Greengrass so you'd have a pureblood heir to make your parents happy." The planner is thrown to the floor. "_You_ left _me_, Draco. You have no right to be here questioning my commitment to Ron. I'm marrying him on Saturday because I love him."

He feels his head shaking back and forth, denying her words. "You used to love me."

"And you used to love me. Not enough, mind you, to choose me over your family traditions."

"I still love you!"

"Don't."

He flattens his hands to the table to keep them from clenching up. "I told you. I had to marry Asteria. It was all arranged. It doesn't mean that I don't still love you and want to be with—"

"Don't!" She holds her hands up. "I don't want to hear this again. It means nothing. You think you made the only choice you could. I _know_ I made mine," she says fiercely.

She's gone, lost to him, and he knows it as plainly as he sees the empty bookshelves around them, but part of him clings to hope. If he could just find the right thing to say, isn't there a chance she could change her mind? "Hermione…"

Her face is like stone, and he founders.

"Can't we just talk?"

"You want to talk?" She shakes her head in disbelief. With a flick of her wand, two wine glasses appear on the table before him. "Pour the wine, Draco. We'll have a toast."

He fills each glass. "To us?" and hope burns in his heart.

"To your wife. To my husband-to-be. And to the choices we made." She raises her glass and takes a long swallow, but he can't bring himself to follow suit. The label of the bottle catches his eye.

"This is my favorite vintage. I was happy to find it in your kitchen." _When everything else is packed away, this was still in the rack as if it was waiting for us to drink it together. You must be thinking of me, you must be—_

She takes another sip. "Drink up then, Draco."

He obeys—

"I was just leaving it here for the next tenants anyway. I didn't want it anymore."

—and all he tastes is ashes.

* * *

_Shut it out  
__I've got no claim on you now  
__Not allowed to wear your freedom down_

_Is there a chance?  
__A fragment of light at the end of the tunnel?  
__A reason to fight?  
__Is there a chance you may change your mind,  
__Or are we ashes and wine?_

_Ashes and Wine  
__A Fine Frenzy_

* * *

END

A/N: It began with Dramione and now it ends with Dramione. Sorry it's on such a sad note! Thanks so much to everyone who read, favorited, alerted, and, especially, reviewed this collection. I really appreciate it!


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